Murphy laughed. “If it wasn’t you’d soon find out.”
“It’s empty,” said Kingsley. “People piss in it now.”
That seemed definite enough. “The three of us got to be in there before the herd starts running,” Lassiter went on. “We can’t wait till after. That would give the two men on the Gatling gun—and what was left of the others—too much time to get set again. We have to hit them hard, right in the middle of the stampede. The stone house is where we have to be. Any place else we’re stew meat.”
“Sounds great,” Winters snarled.
“It’ll be dark,” Lassiter said. “They may spot us. They may not. How the hell do I know. ’Course if anybody’s got a better plan … ”
They didn’t have any suggestions. Lassiter didn’t think they would.
“It’s all suppose,” he said. “We suppose they don’t spot us. There are two slit windows in the stone house. There was an iron door, but that’s gone. Right when the stampede’s going good, I open up from one of the windows. That draws their fire in that direction. Winters doesn’t start shooting till the flashes tell him where to aim. If Howey doesn’t knock out that Gatling—we’re dead.”
Handsome Howey smirked like the puffed-up little killer he was. A deep crease of annoyance appeared between his colorless eyes when Lassiter said, “If Howey can’t do it, me and Flowers will have to start throwing Greek Fire, to light the way. ’Course that could burn up that parlor car too. That’s why I don’t want to use it.”
Lassiter poured himself a small drink. He helped himself to one of the thin cigars in Howey Winters’ vest pocket. It tasted sort of sweet, but he stayed with it.
“The Cubans soak those in rum,” Winters bragged. “Cost me seventeen dollars a thousand.”
“All right,” Lassiter continued. “The outside guards are trampled or shot. The cigar expert here has killed or maimed the two men on the Gatling gun. That leaves Woodruff and the two guards inside the parlor car. Woodruff knows the combination to the safe. We try to blow the door open we risk killing him. Flowers could do it fancy so we wouldn’t kill him. There isn’t time. Besides, them two guards ain’t likely to surrender without a fight. They’re Texas Jack’s men. We got to smoke them out. Make them open the door.”
Lassiter said, “Now you can talk, Howey.”
The little gun-sharp got up and walked over to his neat, steel-banded trunk. Reaching into it, he took out a box of shells. “This,” he said, holding the long, thick bullet between thumb and forefinger, “is the biggest shell made anywhere.” Winters sounded like a professor in a school for killers. “It’s three and a quarter inches long. It’s got seven hundred grains of lead and a hundred and seventy grains of powder.”
“Christ Almighty,” the Irishman declared.
Winters was showing off. Lassiter let him do it. He didn’t care what else the little killer did as long as he did the job he was hired for.
“And here’s the little beauty that throws such a slug,” Winters said, bending again and coming up with a blanket-coddled weapon. “This is a .54-caliber Sharps and if you don’t think it’ll shoot through Bismarck glass, you’re loco, and so’s your mother. If it doesn’t do it the first time, it sure as shooting will do it the second.”
Murphy knew something about guns and the new bulletproof glass they had invented in Germany to keep their kings and princes from getting kiboshed by anarchists and other head-cases. “You shot through Bismarck glass, have you, Howey?” T. J. enquired.
Winters gloated. “The Army done it with a Sharps just like this,” he said. “That was back in Washington two years ago. You ought to read more, Murph.”
Lassiter took over again. “Now there ain’t no more Bismarck glass—we suppose. The doors are still locked from the inside. We can’t climb through the window over broken glass with two guards shooting at us.”
Juno Flowers, usually with nothing to say, was ahead of him. The gloomy explosives-lover said, “We smoke them out. Or stink them out or both. Sliced-up celluloid collars wrapped in wet felt with a fast fuse running through makes the best smoke bomb you ever saw. The celluloid wants to burn like mad, but the wet felt won’t let it. You get the foulest smoke short of a burning skunk—and plenty of it.”
“And we throw in more than one so they get the idea,” Lassiter said. “Flowers says it works faster’n we can talk about it. They won’t have much fight left when they do—Flowers says. Woodruff less than that, I guess. We ask him nice to open the safe. If he doesn’t, we kill him. We hope he’ll see the sensible side of it. If not, Flowers will blow the safe with nitro ...”
“And off we go,” Howey Winters chimed in.
Lassiter had broken his left arm some years back. Sometimes it hurt. It hurt now. He rubbed it. “Maybe,” he said. “It’s all a maybe.”
The Irishman heaved his huge frame out of the ruined wicker chair and stretched his legs. He rubbed his doggy nose and yawned. “By Jesus,” he announced, “I ain’t had that much instructin’ since I was a boy at school.”
Howey Winters held up a can of gun oil and shook it. “What school, T. J.?” he sneered.
Lassiter stepped between them. “Ladies,” he informed them, “that was just a fast rehearsal, as the traveling players say. Now we take it slow and easy. Kingsley, you got a conductor’s watch. Timing, they tell me, is goddamned important.”
Lassiter’s smile was so warm it would have hatched an alligator egg.
“Mother of God,” Murphy said.
Chapter Seven
Abilene was still celebrating the arrival of Texas Jack’s big herd. With Texas Jack’s first few rounds of free drinks to get it started, the town was still spending its own money to get drunk. The saloons were doing a land office business. Lights blazed up and down the main stretch of Texas Street. Upstairs over the saloons the whores hadn’t been off their backs since morning, except to eat a little to keep up their strength. During the long, wild afternoon one of Texas Jack’s boys shot and killed the old colored daddy who swamped out the Alamo Saloon. The sheriff locked him up and said he’d get fined good for that. The sheriff was sick of Texans. He didn’t know when he’d been so busy.
At eight-thirty, Moseley, Kingsley and Murphy drifted down toward the railroad yards. Moseley went by himself. Lassiter thought it was kind of funny to see the old stock-thief with his pockets stuffed with Chinese firecrackers. Kingsley and Murphy carried rolled-up denim coats and hats. When they got to the quiet end of Texas Street, by the railroad yards, they put them on. It was dark and quiet in the yards and they moved confidently like men who knew where they were going.
Winters and Juno Flowers went next, at eight-forty. Handsome Howey complained about having to leave his gun trunk behind. Now he carried the blanket-wrapped weapons, the big Sharps with the shortened barrel and the Remington-Schuetzen, in an oilskin cover. Walking slowly, Flowers carried the explosives in a black bag. In their city clothes they looked like a drummer and maybe a horse doctor on their way to the depot. Abilene was full of strangers— gamblers, salesmen, reporters, sky-pilots, speculators, shysters—and nobody paid Winters and Flowers the slightest heed.
Some distance behind, Lassiter watched them disappear into the half-darkness of the yards. He walked the rest of the way slowly, giving them time to get set. On the way he stopped to roll a smoke, but he didn’t light it. Only the usual sounds came from the yards. A locomotive letting loose steam. The clanging of a bell. Dodging the light from the oil lanterns hung here and there, he waited for a string of freight cars to pass between the old stone storehouse and the men guarding the parlor car fifty yards on the other side of the tracks. When the freight cars passed he was inside the stone building.
The Winchester was hanging inside his coat on a rawhide thong. He took the coat off and threw it in a corner.
Some of the dim light from the yards found its way inside the building. “Jesus, this place stinks,” Winters said. The little killer had unwrapped his weapons and was standing b
ack from one of the slit windows, sighting on the parlor car and caboose across the way.
Lassiter took up his position at the other window. “What about it?” he asked. “How does it look from here?”
“It’s all right,” Winters answered. “I just want to get this thing over and out of here. What a frigging stink!”
Lassiter watched the guards standing in front of the parlor car. There were eight of them. He figured they would be piss-burned because they had to watch over that goddamned money while the rest of the town was getting drunk. That was all to the good. It could make them careless.
The windows of the parlor car were all lit up. The shades were pulled down. The cattle buyer was spending a quiet evening at home. Or so he thought. The freight that had gone into the yards five minutes before started to come out again. Lassiter cursed silently when it stopped right in front of them. He didn’t know why it stopped there. They listened tensely while the engineer swore at the fireman. Lassiter felt his dry, hard hands gripping the Winchester. There wasn’t a thing they could do. At the other window Winters were shaking with anger. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered over and over. Lassiter knew how the little bastard felt. Less than five minutes from now Cal Moseley would start the herd running.
“They spoil this I’ll kill them both,” Winters snarled. Lassiter told him to shut up. Just then the door of the depot office banged open and the station agent yelled at the engineer to get that dad-blamed train out of there. Lassiter’s breath came out slowly. He shouldered the Winchester and sighted in again.
Winters was doing the same thing. Holding his bag of tricks, Juno Flowers stood with his back against the wall. The safe-blower wasn’t nervous any longer. Beyond the yards the huge penned-up herd bawled in the darkness.
The first string of firecrackers went off. Then the second, then the third. Then there was some shooting as Cal Moseley cut down on the cowpunchers watching the longhorns. A sound like a huge groan swept through the herd and the ground started to shake as thousands of tons of cow flesh began to move. The firecrackers started again and the thunder grew loud. One of the guards in front of the parlor car yelled something. Suddenly the cow pens burst wide open and six thousand fear-crazed longhorns were headed right for the depot.
Goodbye, town, Lassiter thought.
Like a fast-flowing river, the huge herd swept over the railroad yards. A river in full flood, it spread out, thickened and picked up speed, wrecking and tearing apart everything in its way. At first the guards in front of the parlor car were confused about what to do. By the time they decided to run it was too late. Lassiter chewed on a dry cigarette and watched the herd sweep over them. He listened to their screams and thought about the money. Maybe he would go to Frisco with Cassie. Maybe not.
The stone building was like a lighthouse in the middle of a storm. The flood of bawling cows swept by the open door. Across the way it boiled up around the parlor car and the caboose where the Gatling gun was. The heavy cars held steady. The shades on the parlor car windows snapped up. Lassiter could see the fat bulk of the frightened cattle buyer and the two guards. “Now,” he said to Winters.
Lassiter levered fast and fired fast. Just as he fired the last shot, the Gatling gun started to chatter. A line of bullets stitched the wall as he ducked back and started to reload. The Gatling stopped and started again. This time some of the bullets came through the door, flattening against the back wall. All it would take was one ricochet to blow them sky high. Juno’s bag had enough nitro and stick-dynamite to do that. “You got it yet, Howey?” Lassiter asked.
“In a minute, for Christ’s sake,” Winters snarled, sighting the big rifle. “Shoot some more.”
Across the way, while the longhorns thundered on through, Lassiter saw one of the outside guards crawling up the steps of the parlor car. The man was pounding on the heavy steel-lined door. It didn’t open. Lassiter saw no reason to waste a bullet just to draw the Gatling’s fire. He shot the man, knocking him clear off the steps.
The Gatling answered right away. Out of the way, he heard Winters say, “Strut your stuff, baby.” The Gatling was still spraying the slit window where Lassiter was when Winters fired. There was a scream and the revolving barrel of the rapid-fire gun stopped winking. It started again a moment later. The second gunner was scared. This time he hardly aimed the gun at all. He ran through a whole strip of bullets, firing as fast as he could turn the crank, spraying everything in sight with hot lead. Winters sighted again and fired. The Gatling stopped firing.
“Time to go, Juno,” Lassiter told Flowers. If there had been time Lassiter would have tested the Gatling some more. There wasn’t. The man behind the Gatling might not be dead, might not even be wounded. He might be sitting there in the dark, behind the gun, waiting for a better chance.
The tail end of the stampede was out of the yards now. A few strays ran around bawling. Now it was the town’s turn to learn how fast six thousand cows could run, how much damage they could do. Lassiter and Flowers started across the torn-up yards at a crouching run. They got as far as the tracks when the Gatling started firing again. Bullets ripped and tore all around them. “God, I’m hit,” Flowers gasped. Behind them Lassiter heard Winters firing fast. The Gatling stopped again.
“How bad is it?” Lassiter asked, supporting the wounded man as they stumbled across the tracks.
“I don’t know,” Flowers said, wheezing. “I think I can make it.”
Down past the yards the town was coming apart. A building began to burn. The lights in the parlor car had gone out. Winters was firing again, this time with the huge single-shot Sharps. The first big shell crashed against the Bismarck glass. Keeping low, Lassiter and Flowers kept going. The big Sharps fired again. The heavy bullet didn’t ricochet, but it didn’t go through. Lassiter cursed Winters and his goddamned guns. Lassiter knew Winters could load and fire faster than that. But he knew the gun-sharp was trying to put them all in the same place. The Sharps boomed again and the thick window burst wide open.
The two men inside the car started shooting through the jagged hole in the glass. Changing back to the fast-fire Remington, Winters sent them ducking for cover. That gave Lassiter just enough time to drag Flowers alongside the parlor car. Flowers was hurt bad all right. Lassiter had to pull hard to pry the black bag loose from his hand. Opening, he felt the wet-felt smoke bombs, the shredded celluloid inside, the fuse sticking out at the end.
Winters stopped firing to reload. One of the guards fired as Lassiter lit the first fuse and stood up to throw it. He felt the breeze of the bullet. From across the yards, Winters fired again. The guard’s body hit the floor of the car with a crash. Every time Lassiter threw a smoke bomb Winters fired. One of the bombs hit the glass and bounced into the yard. Lassiter threw the last bomb and dragged Flowers underneath the car.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Flowers nodded weakly.
Lassiter crawled along under the car. Thick oily smoke was pouring from the wrecked window. He crawled until he reached the steps. Winters ran across the tracks carrying the two heavy rifles. Inside the car Lassiter could hear choking and coughing. Winters dropped on one knee and put three fast shots through the window. Lassiter inched up the steps of the parlor car and beat on the door. “Open up,” he yelled. “You won’t get another chance. Be smart, Woodruff.”
Thirty seconds dragged by. Lassiter told them again. “All right! All right!” a voice said.
Lassiter swung out of the way. The door opened with a crash and the smoke rushed out. The second guard came out after it. He came out too fast, with a gun in his hand. Lassiter shot him dead. “Show yourself, Woodruff,” he yelled.
The cattle buyer’s jowly face showed white through the black smoke. Lassiter told him to keep his hands up. Woodruff whined when Lassiter pushed him back inside the car. Winters followed and took up his position at the window. Lassiter fanned out the worst of the smoke and touched a match to one of the gaslights. The dead guard on the floor looked as
if somebody had split his head with an axe. Winters looked at him with professional interest.
Lassiter dug the muzzle of his Colt into Woodruff’s belly. “Open it,” he ordered.
“You’ll kill me anyway,” the cattle buyer whined.
“Maybe,” Lassiter said. “Now open it.”
“Look at that town burn,” Winters said at the window.
Grunting, the cattle buyer knelt in front of the safe. Lassiter had to prod him again before his fat fingers started to twist the dial. The tumblers clicked, then the fat man made a mistake and had to begin again. Sweat poured down the back of his fat neck. Then finally, the heavy door swung open. Lassiter shoved him out of the way. He reached into the safe and Winters’ big rifle boomed heavily in the enclosed space. Lassiter’s gun came out fast, hammer back. The fat man was sagging to the floor with a huge hole in his belly. He still had his hand under his coat.
Winters grinned. “You’re getting careless, Lassiter,” the little killer said. “Woodruff knew we’d kill him. He had to try something.”
“You start packing the money,” Lassiter said. “I got to see to Flowers.”
“That’s mighty trusting of you, Lassiter.”
“What do you think?”
Winters carried the sack of money. Lassiter carried Flowers. A man appeared from behind a freight car and fired at them. Lassiter dodged and Winters fired the long-barreled .32 with his left hand. The man died with a bullet in his head.
By now the town knew something was up, not just a stampede. With the wounded man across his shoulder, Lassiter wheeled about and saw men running from the end of Texas Street. Down by the roundhouse, Kingsley was backing the engine up to the boxcar where the horses were. Winters and Lassiter broke into a dead run. The heavy coupling links clanged as Kingsley secured the horse-car.
The Man From Lordsburg Page 5
